


Paint Stain Smiles

by schmulte



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Alex is a nude model, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Getting Together, Henry is a gay art history major, M/M, shenanigans ensue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:13:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28645026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schmulte/pseuds/schmulte
Summary: Henry is a stressed art history major just looking for some peace and quiet. He thinks he's found it in the art building, until a rude painter interrupts his whole routine. Will they ever learn to share their space and get along? Yes, they will.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 42
Kudos: 149





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is just a little fluffy stress-relief fic, I hope you enjoy it! Comments are always appreciated, and a huge shoutout to the lovely people of the Gray Area discord server for all the love.

The arts building is much different at night. During the day it is bright and full of noise. Hundreds of pairs of paint-splattered shoes creak across the old wood floorboards, laughs bounce from brick wall to brick wall. The fluorescent lights flicker and illuminate posters on bulletin boards and reflect in buttons on students' backpacks. In the evening, when campus is all but deserted, it is quiet. Lights inside of classrooms are dimmed, and the only sound is that of pencils sketching and the night staff pushing mop buckets across the floor. 

It's Henry's favorite time of day to be in the building, when he can come and sketch in peace. It's not that he _has_ to wait until the cover of night to make art. He could come during the day, when the hallways are bustling with people, but it all just makes him so anxious. Henry's never been one for crowds, and there's just something calming about sitting in one of the overstuffed armchairs, knowing he has the building all to himself. 

It's all lovely and quiet and undisturbed. Or, at least it _was._ Because tonight, Henry's sacred night routine of sitting in his favorite armchair by the bay window and sketching the fish tank across the hall has been disrupted. Because for the past fifteen minutes, someone down the hall has been blasting top 40 radio at an obscene volume. Not only that, but they've also been singing along at the top of their lungs. Henry values his quiet time, and this person who apparently has never heard of headphones or an _inside voice_ is completely ruining it. 

There's only so much he can take before he's stomping down the hall, sketchbook in hand, and banging on the door to the classroom. No one answers, to no one's surprise, and he pushes the door open with maybe a little too much force. On any other occasion he'd be polite, but between exams and Philip and the fact that he hasn't had time to just sit and breathe in three days, he's a bit too worked up to ask nicely. 

His anger diminishes, only slightly, when he's caught off guard by what he sees. First, the old-fashioned stereo, volume up all the way and antenna askew, sitting on a stool. Henry doesn't think he's seen one in at least five years, if not ten.

Second, the easel, facing the door. It's covered in the most chaotic mix of brightly colored paint he's ever seen. Vivid blues and greens clash with dark brown, mustard yellow, light pink. It's the most bizarrely beautiful thing he's ever seen. Its painter is standing in front of it with their back turned to Henry, paintbrush in hand, swaying their hips and singing (very badly, he might add) along to the radio. 

Having made no progress in capturing the artist's attention, Henry takes the next logical step. He turns the radio volume all the way down and clears his throat. Loudly. 

For the second time that night, Henry finds himself caught so off guard that he nearly forgets his anger. Because, if he thought the painting on the easel was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, it pales in comparison to its painter. He turns around slowly, mouth still half-open with the intention of singing along to the music that has been so rudely interrupted, and Henry's breath catches in his throat. His focus is drawn to the beautiful curve of a dark eyebrow, barely noticing that it is now raised in his direction. He's taken aback by the lips that are now turned down in a frown. 

"Can I help you?" the artist asks, folding his arms over his chest. He's around Henry's age, definitely a student judging by the paint splatters on his vans. His voice drips like maple syrup, a slight southern drawl hinting at the corners of his speech. Henry has to shake himself to remember why he came here in the first place.

"Your music," he manages to get out. Then, again, clears his throat. "it's far too loud."

"I wasn't aware anyone else was in the building this late." 

"Yes. Well." 

"Look, not to be rude, but can't you just find a different part of the building to work in where you can't hear it? I'm kind of in the zone here."

That pulls Henry out of his stunned stupid state. He straightens up to full height with a prince's posture and juts his chin out defiantly. "Can't you just invest in a pair of headphones? Or a music player from this decade, perhaps?"

The artist scoffs, offended. "Can't _you_?"

"I prefer to work in peace and quiet. Something you've obviously never heard of."

"You must be lots of fun at parties."

"At least I would get invited. I'm sure no one as rude as you--"

" _I'm_ rude? Who just barged into my workspace unannounced and started berating me?"

Well. He did have a point. Still, Henry insists that he wouldn't have to "barge in" if the music weren't playing so loudly in the first place. He has a perfect response, but of course he loses it in the moment, and sputters. "Well-well. Well you're not supposed to be here in the first place! Classrooms are locked after nine."

The artist just looks amused now, and it pisses Henry off more, somehow. "I have a key and permission from a professor to be here. What's your excuse?" 

"How dare you insinuate- I was in the alcove, which is completely allowed." Something mischievous glints in the artist's eye, the slight quirk of his lips suggesting a hint of I _don't believe you._

"Sure you were. Look, since I'm a gentleman, and apparently this building isn't big enough for the two of us, I'll take my outdated music player and go somewhere more hospitable." Without another word, the artists packs up and leaves. It leaves a strange feeling in the pit of Henry's stomach- he's won, but he doesn't feel at all victorious.

Henry goes to class the next morning with a killer headache and an aching hand. He had gone home shortly after the nameless painter that night, feeling ashamed for no good reason. Okay, maybe there were a few reasons. While he maintains that playing music that loudly in a public space should be a criminal offense, he was partly in the wrong. But it wasn't as if he was the only one being rude. Harsh words were shared by both of them, were they not? Still, it does nothing to help that feel in his gut, the one he's had since last night. 

It also doesn't help that his first class today is at eight in the morning. Henry is an early riser, but he believes there is a staunch difference between liking to wake up early and liking to work early, and he certainly prefers the former over the latter. The only silver lining is that it's taught by his favorite professor, and most of the class is spent in sweet, sweet silence, something Henry desperately needs after last night. 

He can't help being shaken by what happened. It's frustrating, really, to be so worked up by such a minor interaction. But he can't seem to get the painter's face out of his head. He doesn't even know his name, but his eyes were the first thing he thought of this morning, and he did a good deal of staring into them in a rather embarrassing dream last night. Maybe it's just that he hasn't dated in a while (a while meaning forever, in his case). It would make sense, then, that Henry became fixated on such a pretty face. He just needs to find another one, to get it out of his system. 

He goes into class with the hopes of a distraction, but the universe seems out to get him more so than usual today. Because, after the shuffle of securing his seat behind his easel and half-listening to Professor Luna as he sets up his supplies, part of his brain registers that there is someone up on the model platform in the center of the room. Someone very naked. Someone who just happens to be the painter from last night. 

Henry feels his skin heat up and knows that his chest, neck, and face are probably red as a tomato. The model is even more beautiful now that he's had a good night's sleep, rosy-cheeked and bright, pink lips formed in a winning smile. He's slighter than Henry, a couple inches shorter, but there is power in the lithe muscle of his torso. He has strong, broad shoulders, lightly dusted with a smattering of dark freckles, slim, soft thighs, and a deliciously pert rear end. When Henry's eyes trail back up, he finds them staring into the honey brown of the model's, who unfortunately for Henry seems completely unfazed. Confident, even. Cocky, in the way he raises one perfectly arched eyebrow, just as he did last night, daring Henry silently. 

"Nice of you to join us, Mr. Fox," Professor Luna's voice cuts through, pulling Henry's focus back to reality. If the professor notices Henry's blush, he doesn't say anything. Instead he claps his hands together and grins. "Now that everyone is here, let's get started, shall we? Some of you know Alex, my TA for Painting 101. He was kind enough to volunteer to be our new male model after Hunter's incident with the white paint, so please treat him with the upmost respect. Also, if anyone would like to sign Hunter's get well soon card, it'll be up here on my desk."

Professor Luna sets them off to work, and the model -Alex -takes his position up on the podium. The pose is casual, but shows the entire expanse of Alex's body. Henry feels he may overheat and hopes no one else notices his blush, especially Alex. He focuses in on the important anatomical details- the beautiful dip of his hipbone, the curve of his waist. He deliberately avoids paying any more attention than absolutely necessary to more...sensitive bits. 

Class seems to stretch on for an eternity, and for once, the silence isn't helpful at all. Henry finds himself wishing for the first time that someone would talk or play music, something to distract him from the honeyed skin of Alex's delicate wrists. He finds himself more than once making eye contact with the model, and berates himself each time for how flustered he is. After all, Alex looks completely indifferent. And why shouldn't he? They had a brief skirmish, and Henry will apologize for it after class, and that will be that. 

What he did not consider is the fact that Alex is still naked when class ends. Henry swears he's torturing him, because he has to be putting his clothes back on in slow motion, and no one spends that long sliding on a pair of boxers. If he were looking, he'd see that mischievous glint in Alex's eye, the way he deliberately bites his lower lip just to make Henry squirm a little. He at least has his boxers on all the way when Henry finally comes out from behind his easel to talk to him. 

He clears his throat, trying to not look like he's watching the way Alex slides his button up over his shoulders with delicate ease, even though he definitely is. "Hi." 

Alex has the audacity to look indifferent. "Hey."

"I, er. I wanted to apologize. For last night. I was a bit of an arse." Alex only shrugs and works at his buttons. 

"You were, but it's fine. I shouldn't have been playing the radio that loud. I just didn't think anyone else would be there."

Henry rubs the back of his neck, a nervous tick. "I didn't either. I thought I was the only one who ever went there at night, to be honest."

"Yeah, well, you're not the only one who likes peace and quiet." 

"Oh, is that what you call it?" Henry teases. Alex rolls his eyes, but he's smiling just a little. 

"My roommates don't appreciate my late-night painting sessions. I thought I wouldn't be disturbing anyone in the art building, but I guess I'll have to find a new spot."

Henry feels a pang of guilt. It seems ridiculous, that Alex should have to find somewhere else to work when there's only one person he'd be disturbing. One person who can easily go out and buy a pair of noise-cancelling headphones. It feels rather selfish to kick Alex out. "No, no, please don't on my account."

That perfect eyebrow is arched again, and Henry wants to scream. "You sure? You seemed pretty pissed off last night."

"It's...complicated," he sighs. "I was already wound up before I got there. It would be rude of me to force you out just because I was having a bad night." 

Alex looks unconvinced, surveys him up and down. "Right. Uh, well I'm gonna head out. I've got class in like fifteen minutes."

"Oh. Right, right, of course. I'll um. I'll be seeing you then, Alex."

"Yeah, see you, Henry."

Something about the way Alex says his name does something to Henry, something he has to swallow down at keep down as he rushes home. That awful feeling at the pit of his stomach is back, and Henry wants to kick himself for getting so worked up over nothing. Because it is nothing. That's what he'll tell Pez, when he asks what's wrong when Henry slams the door of their apartment, and that's what he'll tell himself tonight, when he goes to sleep and dreams of Alex's skin and his wild, bright paints.


	2. Chapter 2

The first few nights after that class aren’t easy. Henry finds that his noise cancelling headphones aren't really all that effective against Alex's top 40, and the fish tank he's sketched every day for nearly four years has mysteriously gone missing. It's unfair to blame Alex, but Henry really believes he had something to do with it. 

It's also unfair to blame Alex for his sudden artistic block, but he has a sneaking suspicion that, like the fish tank, it is entirely his fault. However much he feigns indifference, Henry has to admit that Alex has shaken him to his core. He's never found himself this deep into a crush before. His artist's brain compartmentalizes it completely, and every sketch is somehow now Alex. He could draw a still life of a pineapple and still somehow connect it to him. It's impossible to get any work done without being distracted.

His downfall comes the third night of their awkward cohabitation. Henry has given up on trying to block out the music- it's not like he's going to get anything done anyway, not with Alex in such close proximity- and sits in his favorite armchair, as always, pencil hovering just above his sketchbook. He's been sitting in the same spot for nearly twenty minutes now, trying not to imagine the tantalizing boy just down the hall. 

In an act of uncharacteristic courage, Henry makes a decision. He'll borrow some bravery from his favorite artists- Picasso, perhaps -and stride confidently, down the hallway and right through the door of the only lit classroom. The lit classroom where he'll find Alex, swaying his hips and singing along to his stereo without a care in the world. The lit classroom where he'll sit perched on a stool and watch Alex work, sketchbook be damned. 

And then...well. He doesn't really know what he should do next. It's obvious that Alex hasn't noticed him come in yet, and Henry's palms are beginning to sweat. Will Alex be angry with him, for barging in uninvited yet again? Will he be glad for the company? 

Well, it's too late now, he supposes. Because Alex turns around to reach for a new brush, and his eyes come straight up to meet Henry's. They both jump a little, Alex more-so, and Henry watches with perverse fascination at how his pupils dilate. Recovering, Alex straightens up, shoulders tense.

"Christ, man, you've got to stop doing that."

"Sorry," Henry admits, blushing. "I wasn't getting any work done and thought you might like some company. If I was wrong, though--."

Alex only shrugs. Henry hates how positively unruffled he can be. "Whatever. Just don't move the stereo."

Well. That wasn't exactly the response Henry was expecting, but he supposes indifference is better than abject opposition. So he sits and watches Alex paint- still the same wild colors in a seemingly random pattern splattered about the canvas. He finds himself inexplicably drawn to the way Alex moves as he paints; the delicate flick of his wrist, the pink dot of tongue just barely poking out from his lips, the slight sway of his hips to the music. It reminds Henry of Bea's old ballet recitals, the way he moves with purpose and effortless grace. Alex makes painting look so easy without even trying.

It takes him a moment to notice how the radio has been turned down, how Alex has been talking to him for probably an embarrassing amount of time. Henry blinks and forces his eyes away from the dip of Alex's hip bone. The painter has an amused look on his face, and blue paint is smeared on his cheek. Henry wishes he could draw him, in this moment. 

"Sorry, what did you say?" he asks, attempting to maintain some composure. Alex only smirks, and Henry's knees feel weak and grateful for the stool beneath them.

"I asked why art history." 

"Pardon?"

Alex rolls his eyes. "I mean, why did you choose art history? Why not just plain art? You've gotta have some artistic talent to be in Luna's advanced class."

"Oh. Well, I did consider it, but art history is just more..." 

"Employable?" Alex offers. 

"Well, to put it plainly, yes. It was the more acceptable choice, for my family, at least." 

Alex looks unconvinced, but he nods, just slightly, to affirm his understanding. And what Henry said was true, it was the only way he was going to get his grandmother to pay for his education. And it's not as if he hates his major- he _does_ like art history, and he thinks he could have an enjoyable career working for a museum somewhere. It's just that a little piece of his heart will always be devoted to drawing. When he graduates and gets a job, it'll become his hobby. A form of stress relief, nothing more.

"What about you?" he tries. "Why painting?"

Alex looks entirely at ease as he casually adds another masterful stroke to his canvas. "I was a poli-sci major, and took Luna's Painting 101 class as a freshman just for the art credit. And, well, you know what Luna's like. If he sees potential, he doesn't let you waste it." This is true. Professor Luna had practically bullied Henry into taking his sketching class, and he's grateful for it. "So I took 102, and then 103, and realized it was the first time I actually had _fun_ in my classes. I like poli-sci and all, and I still care about politics, but it's not the one thing for me. You know?"

Henry thinks he's beginning to understand the concept of a one thing, looking at Alex. His nod communicates as much. 

After that night, they fall into an easy routine. Henry will spend an hour out in his alcove and try to sketch with his noise-cancelling headphones before joining Alex and watching him paint. They make pleasant conversation, get to know each other better. Henry learns Alex lives in an apartment just down the street from his own, with his sister. They're both from Texas, and Alex goes back every summer to his father's lake house. He learns he has a secret love for his sister's trashy gossip magazines and red wine. Every shared detail makes Henry feel as if he's known Alex for years and years instead of a matter of days. 

It's easier to focus on his work, now that he has a somewhat friendship with Alex. It's easy to find inspiration when they're sitting in the same room, talking of nonsense. It's still a bit hard to focus in class- and really, can anyone blame him, with Alex modeling? He still finds his eyes lingering longer than they should, but he's getting better at managing his desires. He is content in his friendship with Alex. He'll take any relationship with him, even if it is only ever platonic.

One night, when they've switched from top 40 to oldies and Henry is bopping his head to Abba as he sketches, Alex holds his hand out to him out of the blue, says "Give me your phone."

Henry raises an eyebrow. "You're not going to paint it, are you?" Alex rolls his eyes, but his lips are quirked up just slightly as Henry relinquishes his cell phone.

"Hey, in ten years that could be worth a lot of money." 

"Oh, I'm sure." 

He watches Alex punch in what he assumes is his contact information, tongue between his teeth in concentration. Henry takes the phone back from him with an unnecessary gentleness, as if it will shatter in two if he holds it too tightly. He tries to ignore the jolt of electricity that runs through his body as their fingers brush.

Alex's number is right there on the screen, staring up at him, daring him. Alex turns back to his painting as if nothing ever happened, and Henry is left again, dumbstruck, while the painter is entirely unaffected. 

Perhaps it's the considerable amount of white wine Pez coerced him to consume, or general insomnia, or the too-loud sounds of New York he still hasn't quite gotten used to, even after almost four years, but Henry finds himself awake at three in the morning with his inhibitions completely nonexistent. Without a second thought, he grabs his phone off the rickety nightstand and types out a text. 

**3:01 am**

Is it just me, or is Paul Hollywood harsher than usual this season?

This is Henry, by the way.

The anxiety of waiting for a text back gnaws at his sleep-deprived brain. He tries to distract himself with Bake-Off the best he can, and nearly launches himself out of bed when he feels his phone vibrate in his hand.

**Alex Claremont-Diaz**

**3:10 am**

yes, oh my god he's the worst

like before it was kind of endearing, but this season he's just mean

**3:11 am**

Perhaps he's just missing Mary Berry.

**Alex Claremont-Diaz**

**3:11 am**

I know I am

what are you doing awake anyway?

**3:12 am**

I could ask the same of you.

**Alex Claremont-Diaz**

**3:12 am**

touche

Then, without warning, Alex's face fills Henry's screen. He's calling. At three in the morning. Henry scrambles to answer quickly and almost rejects the call in the process, but he succeeds and holds the phone up to his ear, hoping his voice doesn't sound too rough. 

"Hello?"

"Okay, so, I have a theory for why Paul is such an ass this season." Henry smiles at the way Alex jumps into the topic, the excitement clear in his voice. He doesn't question why or how he has this much energy at three in the morning, lest he ruin the moment. 

"Do tell."

Alex launches into a long conspiracy theory that Henry can barely keep track of. It doesn't really matter, he thinks, if he doesn't pay attention to his exact words. It's the act of listening that counts, to let Alex know he's there, and for Henry, listening to Alex's voice is enough. He's so animated and charismatic, even when he obviously has gotten just as much sleep as Henry (i.e. none).

They talk and talk and talk, and it's only when Henry's morning alarm goes off does he notice that the sun has come up. They've been talking for close to three hours, and yet if feels like mere seconds have gone by. Netflix has been asking if he's been watching for hours now, and he barely noticed. 

Loathe as he is to end their conversation, Henry feels dead tired, and they both have classes today. 

"It's morning," he says over a yawn. He hears Alex snort on the other end. 

"Damn. You really shouldn't have let me talk for so long."

"I didn't mind." And he didn't. Alex has him feeling warm and tingly, and his voice echoes in his ears. The image of him, in his own bed, on the phone just like Henry is rattles around in his brain, and he can't help but smile giddily. He'll blame it on the wine later. 

"Fuck, I've got class in an hour. I'll text you later?"

Henry tries to contain himself at the mention of a later. Of doing this again, with Alex, maybe hundreds more times, if fate is kind. "Yeah. Talk to you later, Alex."

"Later, Henry."

The line goes dead, and Henry drops his phone. Without a care in the world, he rolls over and sleeps more peacefully than he has in years. He dreams of the smudge of blue paint on Alex's cheek.


	3. Chapter 3

Their easy friendship continues, over the weeks and months as the semester advances. They establish their routine; they'll get coffee before Henry's drawing class where Alex will model, then lunch sometimes afterwards. They'll meet at the art building just after nine, and end up texting or calling the whole night. 

It's during one of these late-night phone calls, that Henry thinks he's going to have a heart attack when Alex asks: 

"Can I paint you?"

Henry nearly chokes on his Early Grey, staining his comforter with flecks of brown. David gives a whine and cocks his head, in that concerned way dogs sometimes too. Henry scratches behind his ear and clears his throat. 

"Pardon?"

Pardon. It's become one of those inside jokes, with Alex. He thinks it's entirely too posh, and teases Henry for it, and Henry tolerates it with a smile. He'll take Alex's teasing any time, if it means he'll get to see that cute quirk of his lips. 

"Let me paint you," this time it's a statement, not a question, because he knows Henry at this point, knows how exactly to phrase what he wants to get Henry to do it. Damn him. "I've got this exhibition at the student gallery coming up, and I want to do something different. Which means I need a new model."

Henry falters. "And...and you want _me_ to do it?"

"Only if you want to," then, after a pause. "Please, Henry? Please please please please please--"

"Are you just going to keep saying please until I say yes?"

"Please, please, pretty please?"

"Fine! Fine, I'll do it." 

"Yes! I could kiss you." There's a pause in the conversation. Henry knows it's his turn to speak, that Alex is waiting for a reply, but he finds himself tongue-tied. He doesn't need a mirror to know his face is red as a tomato. His mouth is hanging open in the way that his grandmother would tell him to _close it or you'll catch flies._ "Henry? You there?"

He clears his throat again, loudly. "Yes. Yes, sorry."

Alex, unfazed as always, continues on. "Okay, cool, do you want to maybe come over tomorrow night, then?"

"To...to your apartment?"

"Yeah, my sister's staying with a friend right now so I can use her room as a studio space. Honestly, I'm surprised she hasn't moved out permanently. I'll pick you up around six and we can order a pizza or something."

Henry's too stunned to say anything other than "okay" before Alex hangs up and he finds himself sitting in his bed, stock still, and cotton-mouthed. If he thought Alex would be the death of him before, he's certain of it now. 

Which is how he finds himself, at six o'clock sharp, trying to will himself to move. It's the same sensation as before, that fateful night where Henry crossed that line and walked into the classroom where Alex worked. He knows, logically, that Alex is downstairs, waiting for him. He knows what he wants to do, what he _should_ be doing. He should be walking down the steps, getting into the car, and kissing Alex silly the minute he sees him. He should be moving. 

He only leaves when Pez practically shoves him out the door, yelling a "use protection!" after him. Borrowing his bravery- from Frida Khalo, this time -he slides into the passenger seat of Alex's car as casually as he can muster. If possible, Alex looks even more beautiful tonight, and something inside Henry churns. He's in his painting clothes, a stained lacrosse jersey and sweat pants that hug his ass just perfectly. There's always paint somewhere on Alex's face. Tonight, it's a yellow fleck on the pink apple of his cheeks. Henry wants to kiss it off. 

"Let's do this," he says instead. Alex grins at him, toothy and wide, and drives. 

Henry decides he's going to make it his personal mission to find whichever poor Texas DMV employee gave Alex his license and kill them. Because Alex drives like an absolute maniac. Worse than Pez, even, and that's saying something. Maybe it's the adrenaline of being alone in a car with him, or the impending events of that night, but every twist and turn makes Henry feel like he's going to vomit. Alex laughs like a madman all the way, and Henry thinks he's definitely going to die tonight, one way or another.

Alex's apartment is a perfect reflection of him. The walls are covered in strange art, sketches of naked men and women, oddly-shaped coffee mugs littering every solid surface of the living room. Henry grimaces at the lack of coasters. 

The studio is as expected- the walls, floor, and his sister's bed has all been covered in white tarp, to keep from staining. There's a stool set up, presumably for Henry, and a large canvas with paints of all sorts of vibrant colors. Alex gestures for Henry to take a seat and he does so, albeit awkwardly. 

The tips of his fingers tingle and his mouth is incredibly dry. It's different, being here alone with Alex. Sure, they're alone together almost every night, but it's different. On any other night, they're in a classroom, brightly lit, public. Being alone, in a bedroom-turned-studio, in the privacy of Alex's apartment is something different entirely. It sets Henry's teeth on edge. 

"Okay, can you take off your shirt?"

Henry nearly swallows his own tongue. "Pardon?"

Alex smiles at their private joke, and Henry's shoulders loosen just slightly. Alex's smile is both reassuring and disarming, comforting and yet uncomfortable. "Look, if it'll make you feel better, I can take mine off too."

"No!" Henry says too quickly. Alex raises an eyebrow at him, and he swallows. "No, no, it's fine. I'll just, er. Right." Slowly, he wills his clammy hands to undo the buttons of his shirt and place it neatly on the covered bed. Alex gives him a satisfied little smirk, and Henry wants to throttle him. 

"Just relax, okay? Take a pose that's comfortable."

Feeling the exact opposite of comfortable, Henry sits up on the stool, rolls his shoulders back. He's all to aware of Alex's intense gaze, and has to remind himself that he's only being looked at this way because he's a subject. The keen eye that lingers on Henry's torso is merely an artist at his craft, not an interested party. That yellow fleck on his cheek stares at Henry, mocks him. _I'm closer to Alex than you'll ever be._

"Okay, you're way too tense," Alex interrupts. "let's take a pizza break, yeah?"

Henry nods and is glad to put his shirt back on and follow Alex into the living room. He graciously accepts the beer he's handed and forces himself to take a bite of pizza. To be honest, he's lost his appetite, but if it'll make Alex feel better, he'll eat. The beer helps; he can already feel the tenseness in his muscles relaxing ever so slightly. He just hopes it won't lower his inhibitions too much. 

"When's the exhibition?" Henry asks after watching Alex inhale half the pizza and two beers in an inhuman amount of time. 

"December second," Alex says through a mouthful of pizza. It really sounds like _dizfember feconth_ , but Henry gets the gist. Alex swallows. "End of the semester and all that. Luna makes me do it, the bastard."

Henry smiles a tight-lipped, polite smile, nods. "And you said you wanted to do something different this time?" Something in his heart flutters at the way Alex seems to light up, and he shoves it down into the depths of where affection for platonic friends lives. 

"Everyone always plays it safe for these exhibitions. Gallery owners come through, you know, size everyone up, decides who's worth their time and who isn't. That means you submit what sells- pretty landscapes and portraits, or even safe abstract stuff because, yes, that's a thing. So I'm doing portraits of people- ordinary people, not models -in whatever colors I feel like. It's not revolutionary or groundbreaking, but it's important to me. I'm painting what I want to paint, not what other people want to see." 

Henry pauses, watches how Alex catches his breath, the slow rise and fall of his chest, how his pretty pink lips are parted. He's most beautiful in times like these, when Henry lets him rant on about his passions. Sometimes Henry thinks he could watch him talk all day and never get bored. 

Alex, for the first time, blushes, and ruffles a hand through his curls. Henry feels a little morbid satisfaction, seeing Alex's demeanor crack just a little. "Sorry. I get kind of...worked up, sometimes."

"Oh, no, please. By all means."

Henry hopes he's not projecting when he notices that Alex seems much less indifferent than usual. There's red creeping in his cheeks and there's an uncharacteristic crease in his forehead that Henry desperately wants to smooth out with his thumb. He watches as he fidgets with the hem of his shirt, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He opens his mouth as if to speak, and Henry gets his hopes up maybe a little too high. 

"Well," he says, and Henry's stomach drops. "we should get back to the painting."

Henry tries not to look disappointed. "Right. Of course."

The rest of their night is spent in an atypical silence. Henry doesn't think he's ever seen Alex this tense- in fact, he's never seen him tense at all -and he tries not to let the worry show on his face. They call it a night around ten, and Alex drives him home in near silence. They agree on another session on Thursday night, and Henry goes home feeling a little less sure of Alex, and a lot less sure of himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter today, but I promise you'll like how it ends!

To say things are awkward after that night would be an understatement. Henry spends hours contemplating what he might have done wrong- perhaps a glance that lingered too long, a casual hand on a shoulder a little too tight. It worries him more than it should. 

The truth is, Henry has never developed feelings this fast, for anyone. Alex's smile gives him butterflies and his laugh sets his nerves on fire. It's unfair, really, the hold he has on him, when he's so unaffected by everything. He values his friendship more than anything, and he really, _really_ doesn't want to screw this up with a stupid crush. 

But he can feel Alex pulling away. His spends more time frowning than smiling, and is eerily silent for long periods, something Henry didn't think him capable of. Maybe it's the stress of the upcoming exhibition that's making Alex sweat. Maybe it's the pressure of deadlines that make him flinch away from his touch. Maybe it's all in his head. 

What he knows for certain is that Alex is tense, and Alex is never tense. His movements are stiff and robotic as he paints, and more often than not his bottom lip is being gnawed on by pearly teeth. Henry is entirely naked today, so he's not exactly comfortable either, leg tastefully draped to hide certain embarrassing parts of his body. He feels hot under Alex's gaze, and his palms sweat more than he'd like them to. 

"You look tense," Henry comments, tentatively. Alex smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. 

"Well, you _are_ the expert."

Henry rolls his eyes and changes tactics. "Can we take a break? My leg is starting to cramp."

Alex hesitates, but he nods, sets down his paintbrush and wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. It leaves a streak of white that settles into the line that forms there when he frowns. Henry gratefully pulls his boxers back on and sits more comfortably on the floor, pats the space on the tarp in front of him. Alex sits a tentative distance away, knees pulled up to his chin. 

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

Henry raises an eyebrow. "Alex. I know you well enough to know when you're upset." 

"I'm not upset." He's lying through his teeth, and Henry feels a familiar heat in his chest, the one that rises when he and Alex are fighting. He feels his face twist into a frown and narrows his eyes. 

"Bullshit. You've been on edge all week and you won't tell me why."

"I can't tell you why." Alex groans and pulls at his hair, dying the tips of his curls white from the paint on his hands. Henry would want to run his hands through it, if he weren't so angry. 

"Why not?"

"Because-because I don't want you to hate me!" Alex pauses, and Henry knows he's gauging his expression, because that's what he's doing too. Alex's eyes are wild and frantic, and his poor bottom lip is red and puffy. His hair looks completely ridiculous, and his face is tomato red. He watches him breathe in through his nose, breathe out through his mouth, sigh. Henry chooses his next move carefully. 

"Why would I hate you, Alex?"

"Because I fucking like you, okay?" He pauses, as if to let Henry respond, before changing his mind and steamrolling ahead. "And I didn't know it until I started painting you because I thought maybe it was just a friend crush, and then June slapped some sense into me and I realized it was an actual, honest to god, romantic crush. And you're fucking gorgeous and smart and way too good for me and I knew you would never be into me, so I tried to hide it by staying away from you, but I can't go a day without seeing you. And it's driving me fucking crazy. I really don't want to ruin our friendship, so if you don't feel the same way will you please just slap me and then we can go back to normal?"

He stops, heaving deep breaths, and Henry feels incredibly stupid. All this time he spent worrying about ruining their friendship, and Alex was worried about the same exact thing. The signs were all there and Henry was just too self-absorbed to see them. He knew he liked Alex, but he never considered Alex actually might like him back.

"I...you...you like me?"

He only nods. Henry swallows and borrows his bravery once more- not from a famous artist, but from Alex. Because Alex has always been the brave one in their friendship, the extrovert, the wild card. And right now he needs Henry to take charge. 

For once in his entire miserable life, Henry acts without thinking. He launches himself forward, tangles his fingers in Alex's hair, paint stains be damned, and pulls him into a searing kiss. It's so much better than his unconscious mind ever dreamed of. Alex's lips are soft and the smell of the paint is intoxicating. 

Alex reciprocates with equal fervor, pulling Henry down on top of him with bruising fingertips on his waist, deepening the kiss until Henry is straddling him on the floor. His tongue darts out experimentally, brushes along Henry's lower lip, and he groans deep in his throat. He can feel Alex's lips quirking up against his own, and that tug in his stomach returns, but it feels right, in this moment, as if it's found its place. 

Henry stops it before things get too heated. Alex leans up to chase his lips, but he's pushed down by his shoulders. His pupils are blown wide, black swallowing the honey brown Henry loves, and his lips are red and kiss-swollen. They're both breathing heavily, and an unconscious shift in Henry's hips coaxes a whine out of Alex that goes straight to below the belt. 

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that," Henry breathes.

Alex laughs genuinely for the first time in days, deep in his stomach. "Ditto."

Henry can't help it- he kisses the mouth that is smiling below him, the soft spot behind his ear, the throat from which beautiful noises and laughter come from. Alex groans a different groan, the one that means he's about to do something he doesn't want to do. It vibrates deep in his throat against Henry's lips. 

"As much as I want to ravish you right here on the floor," he pants, and Henry laughs against his skin as Alex rubs soothing circles into his hips. "I want to do this right, first. Properly." 

"Oh?" Henry sits back up, and that mischievous glint is back in Alex's eye. "And what does that entail?"

"Dinner? Tomorrow night? I'll buy you flowers and everything. I'll be the perfect fucking gentleman." 

Henry tortures him, just a little bit, and fakes careful consideration. The pleading look on Alex's paint-stained face is too adorable, though, and he can't help but kiss him.

"I'd love to."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for sexual content in this chapter!

As promised, Alex is the perfect gentleman. He arrives at Henry's apartment at seven on the dot with a bright smile and roses in hand. He looks so fucking dapper in his suit that Henry has to physically restrain himself from jumping his bones right there and then. 

His table is set for two, complete with a fancy table cloth and candles. Henry is actually impressed- he didn't think Alex owned anything other than paper plates and plastic silverware. Alex gallantly pulls Henry's chair out for him and is rewarded with a kiss on the cheek. 

"I didn't know you could cook," Henry says when Alex sits down. He's flashed a wink that really shouldn't be as attractive as it is. 

"I'm full of surprises, sweetheart."

Henry curses Alex's name silently as he blushes furiously. Now that he's gotten his confession out, Alex's cool, unaffected demeanor has returned, and it annoys Henry to no end. Alex is all charming smiles and sharp wit, molding Henry like putty in his hands until they've both had maybe a little too much red wine and are stumbling backwards into his bedroom. Something bubbles up in Henry's stomach- Alex's perfectly crafted remarks over dinner, the candles, the little dot of pink paint on the tip of his nose. It's all too much and not enough at the same time and Henry finds himself scrambling for purchase on the precipice that is Alex Claremont-Diaz. 

Fighting to gain back the control he relinquished earlier, Henry pushes Alex on the bed and climbs over him, straddling him just like before in the studio. Alex looks absolutely feral and his lips are impossibly red from wine or kissing or both, and Henry needs to do something about that smirk on his face or else he thinks he'll explode. 

He trails kisses along tanned skin- behind his ear, his throat, the dip of his collarbone -unbuttoning Alex's shirt as he goes. His skin tastes salty and a little bit sweet and he smells like turpentine and canvas. Henry wants to make that scent into a candle. 

He takes his time, pushing open Alex's shirt with deft, slender fingers and kissing along his chest, his stomach, down the trail of dark hair that leads to his trousers. After a questioning look and a nod from Alex, he helps him out of his shoes and trousers until all he's left in is his boxers and the open dress shirt. Henry makes a point to look directly in Alex's eye as he licks his lips, and he swears he can hear Alex pray. 

Henry continues in his ministrations, presses kisses to every inch of available skin and rubbing circles into Alex's hips. He's been wanting to touch the bone there since they first met, and it's oh so satisfying to be able to. Alex's fingers card through his hair and pull gently, just at the nape of the neck, enough for Henry to look up with a raised eyebrow. 

"Yes?" He drags out the vowel and watches Alex's slow crumbling with a smile. 

"Stop being a tease," Alex growls. And oh, if that tone of voice doesn't send a shiver down Henry's spine.

"What happened to being a gentleman?" he coos. Alex tugs on his hair again, harder, and he takes great satisfaction that he's finally found the chink in his armor. He imagines this as the satisfaction Paris must have felt when he found the one weakness in Achilles and finally took down the greatest soldier in all of Greece. 

"All is fair in love and war, baby."

And just when Henry thought he'd finally gotten the upper hand, he loses it. Because Alex says _baby_ with his half-lidded eyes and those beautiful eyelashes casting shadows on his elegant cheekbones, and suddenly he is not Paris but Hector, slayed by Achilles' fatal blow. He'd happily take a hundred deaths by the sword if it means he could see Alex like this forever. 

Henry would like to think that he regains his power when he takes Alex into his mouth, but he'd be lying to himself if he did. He is precious clay beneath Alex's strong fingers, the canvas that he paints on, and he is all too content to yield to his artistic vision. 

Alex comes with Henry's name on his lips and barely takes a moment to rest before he's flipping them over and fumbling with the button of his slacks. Henry laughs at the whispered curses and complaints and the asking of _why aren't you naked yet,_ which earns him a bite to his shoulder. There will be a bruise there in the morning and the vibrant blues and purples will remind him of Alex's paintings. Alex fucks him sweet and slow, whispering praises of _baby_ and _sweetheart_ and _beautiful._ The kisses he presses to Henry's neck are surprisingly gentle, he treats him as if he's made of glass and will shatter at the slightest pressure. 

When they're done and spent and boneless, and Alex has cleaned them both up with a wet washcloth, they lay together on Alex's sweaty cotton sheets in silent contentment. Henry lays on his stomach and lets Alex trace shapes along his back, connecting moles and freckles as constellations. 

"I'd like to paint you," he hears Alex murmur, and he snorts into his pillow. 

"I thought you were already doing that, darling." The endearment rolls off his tongue so naturally that he's not even surprised when it slips out. Alex is unfazed as usual, humming as the tip of his index finger outlines the sharp curve of Henry's shoulder blade. 

"I mean I'd like to paint _you,_ " Alex says with an eye roll, but his tone is soft. "your back is the perfect canvas for a landscape."

"Mm, alright. As long as you promise to wash me off after."

Alex grins like the Cheshire Cat. "Deal."

They go for a picnic on Sunday morning, and it all feels horribly domestic. They prepare their meal together, pack grapes and cheese and crackers ("fancy white people food," Alex teases), stealing kisses and sips of champagne in the middle of Alex's kitchen. They walk hand-in-hand to the big oak tree at the local park and sit on a cheesy gingham blanket. Henry feeds Alex strawberries and kisses the sweetness from his mouth until he mumbles something about losing the light. Henry is begrudged to separate, but it's worth it when he lies on his stomach in the soft grass and feels the cool brush of paint across his shoulders. 

Alex likes to tell stories while he paints. It's something he does when he can't play his absurdly loud stereo, and Henry much prefers it. He tells tales of his childhood, when he and June would play in the hot Texas sun and run in sprinklers in their bathing suits. It makes Henry long to get to know Alex better, to see his father's lake house in person. He imagines a hundred scenarios in a hundred different lifetimes- skinny dipping at midnight with the pale glow of the moon reflecting on Alex's smooth skin, traveling to London and taking an awful, tourist-trap tour with matching shirts. 

Kisses trailing up his neck pulls him back to this reality, the one where their relationship has only just begone, where Alex is painting his skin like any other canvas. Henry hums, practically purring under careful attention. Alex whispers against his ear, tickling the sensitive skin there and sending shivers up his spine. 

"As much as I like seeing you like this, it's getting dark out."

"Mmrgh," is all Henry manages to get out. Alex's laugh rings in his ears like church bells. 

"C'mon, sweetheart. I'll draw you a hot bath." 

"Only if you're in it too."

It hurts Henry's heart a little, to see a painting Alex spent nearly an hour on get washed away so quickly. Alex laughs and insists it's fine, and kisses him until he finally agrees. They sit together in the bath, Alex's back slotted against Henry's chest, leaning between his legs. Henry has the feeling again of domestic bliss as he rubs the pad of his thumb against a fleck of paint just below his lip. 

"Henry?" Alex asks, barely above a whisper. 

"Hm?"

Alex turns himself around and sits himself down in Henry's lap, hands coming up to hold his shoulders. Henry's hands idly slide up and down the smooth skin of his sides, body acutely aware of the slender legs straddling his hips. 

"I was thinking..."

"Mm, a dangerous pastime." Alex slaps his chest without venom, and Henry laughs with his whole chest. 

" _Anyway_ ," he continues. "I was thinking about you and me. Us."

Henry's heart climbs its way into his throat. He schools his expression, tries to keep his cool, even though he knows Alex can see right through him. "Oh?"

"Yeah. And I thought, well...I don't want to see anyone else."

Oh. Oh, that's the opposite of what Henry thought was going to happen. Still, he tries to play it cool, not eager today to give Alex the satisfaction of making fun of the way his eyebrows shoot up. 

"I don't want to see anyone else, either."

Alex breathes an uncharacteristic sigh of relief and smiles, full and genuine. "Okay, great. So...do you want to be my...?"

"Boyfriend? Partner? Lover?"

"Boyfriend, definitely." 

Henry answers him with a kiss, gentle and slow, the way Alex deserves in such a heartfelt moment. They stay in that one spot until their skin is wrinkled and the water has long gone cold and it is far past Henry's bed time. He thinks he'd stay there, forever, if he could. He'll tell Alex as much in the morning.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for a panic attack at the beginning of the chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is: the final chapter! Thank you so much to everyone who left comments and kudos and a huge shout out to the Gray Area server for the support.

The semester comes and goes in a whirlwind of kisses, caresses, and laughter. Henry spends his days drawing and his evenings kissing the paint stains from Alex's lopsided smile. He spends more time at his boyfriend's apartment than his own; he has a toothbrush besides Alex's in a little plastic cup on the bathroom counter, extra pairs of socks and boxers in his bottom drawer. He keeps a picture of Alex in his wallet and finds notes packed in with his art supplies- sometimes a simple _pick up milk on the way home_ or a silly sketch, and once a rather dirty limerick that made Henry blush from the tops of his ears all the way down to the tips of his toes. 

When finals week ends, Alex locks himself in his studio and doesn't come out for hours at a time. Henry has since learned to let Alex work until he's done, and supports him by bringing him food and water and letting him play his stereo as loud as he wants. He'll still seek refuge in the arts building on occasion, but he's had less and less need of its quiet solitude since Alex. Henry finds he doesn't mind the noise, as long as it's being made by Alex. 

One night, during a particularly difficult meltdown and over twenty four hours without sleep, Henry has to practically break down the door of Alex's studio to get to him. Alex won't let him see any of the paintings until the exhibition, and even in the midst of a panic attack he has the sense of mind to cover them with a sheet before Henry can catch a glimpse. There's red paint splattered across his face like freckles, and Henry holds him and kisses away his tears until he can breathe again. 

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Alex mumbles into his shirt when it's over. "you should be asleep, not dealing with...this."

Henry presses a kiss to the mop of unruly curls and rubs a hand up and down his back. "Don't apologize. This exhibition means a lot to you. Just let me take care of you for once."

"It's rotten work."

"Hey." He places a hand under Alex's chin and tilts it up, up, up until he can see into his eyes. "Not to me. Not if it's you."

Alex snorts. "Did you just quote Euripides to make me feel better?"

"That depends. Did it work?" 

Alex cracks a small, tearful smile and wraps an arm around Henry's neck. "C'mere, sap." 

They don't get much work done for the rest of the night. 

The day of the exhibition, Alex is oddly calm. He wakes Henry with a breakfast in bed ("a thank-you gift for dealing with my bullshit") and doesn't leave the comfort of cotton sheets until well after four. Henry takes his time, relaxes against the pillows as he watches Alex dress. The soft glow of his skin under the late afternoon light, the ever-present fleck of paint, now dotted above one eyebrow all seems impossibly intimate. Sometimes, when he can't sleep, Henry will lean up on one elbow and watch the steady rise and fall of Alex's breathing and contemplate how lucky he is to have had the courage to walk right into that single lit classroom. 

Now, Alex is looking at him softly as he works the buttons of his shirt, a gauzy white thing that makes him look like he walked straight off the set of Bridgerton. "Enjoying the view?" He asks with a smirk that makes Henry melt.

"Mm. I'd enjoy it more if you'd come back to bed."

Alex laughs, bright and tinkling, and leans over to place a chaste kiss to Henry's lips. "I've got to head over early and help Luna set up. You sure you'll be okay getting there on your own?"

Henry rolls his eyes. "It's just the art building, Alex, I think I'll manage just fine."

He smiles and steals one more kiss, two, three, and then leaves Henry in bed. He goes home to change, ignoring the wolf-whistle and "walk of shame, huh?" from Pez, and is back at the art building at five o'clock sharp. The place is bustling already and Henry has to fight through the crowd to get inside, but Alex is there waiting for him with a warm palm and a private smile. 

"Are you ready?" Henry asks him, and Alex squeezes his hand and winks.

"Baby, I was born ready."

The gallery is teeming with excitement and he hardly has the time to process everything before he's pulled over to a wall on the far right and his heart nearly stops beating. It's covered in Alex's work, bright colors all mixed together, but more notably, it's covered in _Henry_. A black sharpie portrait of his side profile over the colorful canvas painted that first night, a purple blue and pink watercolor of his naked body, a bright orange detailing the sharp vee of his hip bones. And what's worse is all the people crowded around them, shifting gazes between Henry the person and Henry the painting, nodding their approval and pursing their lips. He can feel the slow heat of a blush forming, along with a lump in his throat.

Alex looks over at him with eyebrows raised in apprehension. "So? What do you think?"

What does he think? He _thinks_ his brain can't decide between throttling Alex or taking him right here on the gallery floor. He _thinks_ he wants to marry the man in front of him, if he doesn't kill him first. 

"Didn't you say you were painting models? As in, plural?"

He shrugs. "I did. But that was before...y'know. Us."

"And is this why I wasn't allowed to see any of the paintings before?"

"Would you have said yes if you knew?"

Henry bites his tongue. "Fair point."

Alex rubs the back of his neck almost sheepishly. "Are you mad?"

Henry considers for a moment. He thinks back to this morning, when Alex artfully created a portrait of David on his toast with apricot jam. Of the time he painted his back at the park and the confession that followed. Of every splatter of paint that decorated Alex's face and moved with his smile. Of his artist's hands, slender but strong, tracing shapes across his body. Of the care that must have gone into all these paintings; the late nights and early mornings, the days without sleep, the hundreds of cups of coffee consumed. And how can he be angry, really, when so much care has gone in to all these works of art? When the love of his life is looking at him like he holds the world in the palm of his hand, like his judgement is law? 

"No," he decides out loud. "I'm not mad at all."


End file.
